


Beneath the Layers

by bendingsignpost



Series: Tumblr Fic [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 09:50:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18990253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bendingsignpost/pseuds/bendingsignpost
Summary: Dean Winchester is the most wholesome neighbor Castiel has ever had the fortune to have.Dean Winchester is the man next door that boys next door dream of growing up to be.Dean Winchester has sun-kissed freckles even in the middle of winter, which is when Castiel moves in. Dean Winchester is a creature of warmth and charm and flannel from the first minute of their acquaintance, which is when Dean brings over an honest to god homemade apple pie.By now, it’s summertime, and Castiel is in love.





	Beneath the Layers

Dean Winchester is the most wholesome neighbor Castiel has ever had the fortune to have. 

Dean Winchester is the man next door that boys next door dream of growing up to be. 

Dean Winchester has sun-kissed freckles even in the middle of winter, which is when Castiel moves in. Dean Winchester is a creature of warmth and charm and flannel from the first minute of their acquaintance, which is when Dean brings over an honest to god homemade apple pie. 

“Honestly, the new neighbor thing is totally an excuse. I love pie, but I’m on a diet,” Dean had explained. “Enjoy it for me, okay?” And he’d winked while walking backwards down Castiel’s few front steps. 

Castiel had enjoyed it for him very much. 

The next time Dean came over, it was with a snow blower while Castiel huffed and puffed his way up and down his driveway, muttering curses in between shivers. “Need a blow?” Dean had asked with a wide grin. 

Castiel had confirmed, yes, he very much did. 

Their schedules never seem to match up, but one afternoon in the early spring, Castiel had come home early to find Dean mowing his lawn. Dean stopped while Castiel parked, and almost sheepishly, Dean came over to say, “I just like mowing, I wasn’t trying to say your lawn was awful or anything.”

Castiel had assured him that no offense was taken, and that the favor was appreciated. 

By now, it’s summertime, and Castiel is in love. 

  


  


“No one’s that much of a boy scout,” Meg warns him over yet another evening of trashy reality TV. “Not even boy scouts are boy scouts like that.”

“They would be if Dean led their troop,” Castiel answers. Sighing, he looks out the window of his living room, through the blinds, through the dark, and at Dean’s house. As always, no lights are on. Dean goes to bed early, responsibly early... not that Castiel has checked for evening activity. There are simply some nights Meg isn’t available to socialize, and Castiel has been trying to get better at talking to people. 

“I’m telling you, no one is that squeaky clean,” Meg insists. “You’re going to be the neighbor they interview on the news who swears no one would have ever guessed Dean was a serial killer.”

“Dean isn’t a serial killer.”

“No, he’s just an obscenely fit man who lives alone and goes to bed at sundown like a reverse vampire.”

Hardening his expression, Castiel fixes his eyes back on the commercials. 

“...Wait,” Meg says. “You’re actually into him, aren’t you?”

Castiel just looks at her. 

Meg sighs. “Oh, Clarence. I’ll miss you when you get murdered.”

“I’ll risk it.”

  


  


On a warm Saturday, Castiel comes over and rings Dean’s doorbell. 

It takes a minute, and then a longer minute, and then the muffled sounds of someone running up the stairs from the basement, but Dean opens the door. 

“I-” Castiel begins, and stops. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says, face flushed, hair damp. His A-shirt clings to him. His yoga pants grip his thighs. His bare arms glisten. He smells of fresh sweat, strength, and Old Spice. “What’s up?”

“I- I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” Castiel asks. 

Dean looks down at himself. “Oh, uh. No, just working out in the basement. Did you need something?”

Summoning reserves he hadn’t known he’d possessed, Castiel forces himself to focus. “I... was wondering,” he begins. “If there was any... If the neighborhood. During the summer. Does it  _do_  anything?”

“Like a cookout or something?” Dean asks. 

Castiel bobs a nod. 

“I mean, the Nyguens up the street have a pool party for the Fourth, but that’s basically it until the Acostas do their Christmas party. Lotta blanks to fill in, if you wanted to.”

Castiel’s mind snags on the notion of Dean in swimming trunks. “Would you want to?” he asks, not entirely sure what he means. 

“Have a cookout? Um.” Dean blinks. “Uh, yeah, sure! Could be fun. Between our places on a weekend afternoon, maybe? Would that be okay?”

“Of course,” Castiel says with absolutely no knowledge of cookouts or organizing large social events, or even any inclination to have one. 

“Awesome,” Dean says, grinning wide. “Okay, I’ll, uh.” Dean points upwards. “I’ll go shower, then swing by yours?”

“Of course,” Castiel repeats. 

“This’ll be fun,” Dean promises. Still grinning, he closes the door. 

  


  


This is how Castiel winds up throwing half a cookout. Dean mans the grill while Castiel ensures adequate supplies. Ice in coolers, paper plates on tables, and emptied and re-emptied garbage cans. He meets the rest of his neighbors, plus their children, and remembers next to none of their names. 

Some of them might not even be his neighbors. Meg certainly can’t be the only one who comes along for the ride. 

“Working out in his basement, or disposing a body,” Meg muses, leaning almost too closely in the sticky evening heat. 

“Stop it,” he tells her sternly, though still allowing her to steal his beer and finish off the bottle. 

“He knows we’re talking about him,” Meg points out. “He’s staring at us.”

Castiel looks, and finds it to be true. 

For half a second, Dean stares back across the occupied folding tables crowding their side yards. For just that instant, Dean’s expression is blank, hidden in plain sight. 

And then Dean grins again, abruptly himself, and nods Castiel over. 

Castiel’s feet move without permission. He doesn’t stop until he’s at Dean’s side, positioned upwind from the smoke.

“You’re a burger guy, right?” Dean asks, flipping one. “Not a sausage man.”

Dean asks it very casually, as if possessing extreme food opinions. 

“I’m definitely ‘a burger guy,’” Castiel confirms. He’s not sure why he does the air-quotes. They’re simply something that happens when he’s nervous. 

Looking back down at the charcoal and the cooking meat, Dean nods to himself. “Just thought I’d check.” Clearing his throat, Dean adds, “Would you mind taking over the grill? I gotta clear out in an hour.”

“What? Why?”

“Uh, night shift?” Dean says, as if this is something Castiel should have noticed. 

“Oh,” Castiel says. “Right.”

Dean slides a burger onto a grilled bun and passes the paper plate over to Castiel. “Yeah, so eat up while you can.”

“What is it you do?” Castiel says, taking the plate automatically. Naturally, this is the moment ever-curious Meg pops up next to him. 

“I work at a senior center,” Dean says, glancing to Meg. “Overnight shift. Who’s this?”

“Meg,” says Meg, holding out her hand in clear challenge. 

Dean shakes it, his typical charisma strained into a thin veneer. 

“I’m a nurse,” Meg adds, smiling too wide. “Which senior center is it?” 

Dean checks his watch and hands Castiel the spatula. “One I’m gonna be late to, actually. Thanks for doing this, Cas!” And Dean retreats, calling goodbyes to those gathered before disappearing into his house. He’s back out in fifteen minutes, his garage door opening to reveal an ancient and beautiful black car. 

As it rumbles away, Castiel abruptly realizes that the noise he hears in the wee hours before dawn are not, in fact, a garbage truck or construction equipment passing on through. 

Meg looks up at him significantly before freeing him from the grill. “I’m telling you...” she sing-songs ominously.   
  
  
  
  
  
Castiel starts finding little things he can do. Little neighborly things. Like wheeling in Dean’s trash and recycling cans before a wind storm can chase them all the way down the street. Or bringing a vegetable tray to the Fourth of July pool party, as Dean’s still on a diet despite having achieved peak physical fitness and appearance. Or brainstorming what else he could possibly do. Like flipping through his mail in the vain hope that some of Dean’s was incorrectly delivered, that sort of thing. 

When his next opening comes, it’s the exact opposite of what he wanted. 

The windstorm hits, bringing thunder with it. The sky cracks open, pouring down buckets and wringing out the humidity, and it must take some power lines with it. In an abruptly dark home, Castiel peers out his windows, taking in the rest of his equally dark street. 

Except, that is, for one house. 

Castiel sends a text and fills up his cooler with the contents of his freezer. Receiving a text in the affirmative, he hauls his melting foodstuffs through the pounding rain, across a squelching lawn, and through Dean’s open front door. Drenched, he stops on the welcome mat, blinking water out of his eyes while Dean throws a towel over his shoulders and takes the cooler from him. 

Castiel and the cooler both drip on the floor into the kitchen, but Dean doesn’t seem concerned. Despite the late hour, Dean has a pot of coffee on. Mercifully, he also has the A/C going. 

“Thank you,” Castiel says from the depths of his overheated heart as Dean shoves frozen vegetables around in his freezer. Castiel keeps toweling himself off, but it’s half an excuse to smell the laundry detergent and imagine the sensation of hugging Dean. 

He has it bad, and he knows it. 

“Fucking awful out there,” Dean says, unloading Castiel’s provisions onto an emptied shelf. “I got the generator for the snowstorms, but this is fucking ridiculous.”

“The worst part is the heat. Until the rain started, the wind was actually helpful.”

“You closed all your windows?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Coffee?”

One cup couldn’t hurt, Castiel reasons, and accepts. 

They wind up sitting down on the same side of Dean’s kitchen island, perched on stools and nursing their coffees slowly. When Castiel asks whether Dean needs to leave for work soon, Dean shakes his head. 

“They gave me the night off.”

“With the power off?” Castiel asks. “I’d assume they’d need more hands without electricity.”

Dean stares at him blankly for a second before snapping out of it. “Oh! Right. Uh, no. I mean, they gave me the night off before the storm. Planned. Planned night off.”

Castiel nods and their conversation continues, inching later, inching, and then leaping after midnight. With the coffee pot empty, Castiel covers a yawn. “I should go home,” he says.

They’re silent for a moment, but the storm lashing the house isn’t. Lightning flashes and thunder booms almost simultaneously. 

“I have a guest room,” Dean says. 

“That might be a better idea,” Castiel agrees. 

It’s awkward, brushing his teeth and going to bed in a house where his neighbor—friend—will be wide awake for hours yet, but once Castiel lies down, he loses all his reservations. The mattress is sub-par, but he’s never been upstairs in Dean’s house before. He’s never been so fully wrapped up in Dean’s scent before. 

 _Sleeping over at Dean’s house_ , Castiel texts Meg with a number of teasing emojis. 

 _Thanks for letting me know, I’ll find your corpse faster this way,_ she answers. 

Castiel rolls his eyes, lies down in his boxers and a borrowed, dry t-shirt, and dreams. 

  


  


  


In the morning, Dean fights his way through yawns to make Castiel pancakes. 

“Look, if I can’t have all the foods I want to,  _somebody_  has to,” Dean insists, plying him with coffee and maple syrup before sending him out into the soggy world.

  


  


  


When power comes back, Castiel retrieves his foodstuffs. As the weather calms and cools, Castiel takes up jogging, a long abandoned college pastime, and he convinces Dean to join him in the mornings. Castiel gets up a little earlier, Dean stays up a little later, and they run. They come home, grin their goodbyes, and separate to shower. 

Castiel imagines a different outcome more than once. 

They jog everyday into the fall, weekends included, and Castiel’s heart threatens to pound of of his chest the Saturday morning Dean hugs him goodbye. Grinning to himself like an absolute fool, he takes only the quickest of showers, too aware of Meg’s impending arrival. They have TV to binge watch. 

She arrives, hugs him, and freezes. For an instant, Castiel thinks she can somehow smell Dean on him, but that’s not it. Instead, Meg pulls back with a teasing grin, flicking at a spot on his hoodie. “Lookit you, all glittery.”

Frowning, Castiel tugs at the neckline of his hoodie until he can see the fabric. Meg’s right: there’s a light dusting of the stuff along his shoulder. 

“I don’t know where that came from,” Castiel says. 

“Yeah, sure. Like all your swooning over Ted Bundy hasn’t made you blow off some steam at a strip club.”

Dutifully rolling his eyes, Castiel changes the subject. 

  


  


  


Fall gives way into winter. Dean is still the perfect neighbor, and Castiel is still hopelessly in love with him. 

It snows, and their jogging stops. 

“Could we work out in your basement instead?” Castiel asks, missing him, as they commiserate about awful sidewalks over coffee in Dean’s kitchen. 

“Um,” Dean says. 

“Meg says you’re a serial killer and it’s your torture dungeon down there,” Castiel adds between sips. “I’ve been curious to go down.”

Dean chokes. 

He coughs a lot, even with Castiel rubbing his back. 

Castiel keeps rubbing his back. 

“I’m not a serial killer,” Dean says. 

“I didn’t think so,” Castiel tells him. “Still, do you have equipment down there?”

Dean looks at him as if Castiel just made some kind of joke. Apparently realizing otherwise, Dean answers, “Uh, yeah. Just, um. Some of it’s not... conventional? So don’t judge, okay?”

“Okay?” Castiel says, frowning deeper. 

Coffee still in hand, Dean takes him downstairs. In the finished basement, there’s a treadmill, some free weights, and a floor-to-ceiling mirror, the sort Castiel associates with ballet studios. There’s also a metal pole with a pad beneath. 

“It’s really good exercise, all right?” Dean says, taking a turn for the nervous. 

“What is?” Castiel asks. 

Dean indicates the pole. 

“Oh.” Castiel nods. “I’ve heard that. Core and upper body strength.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, visibly relieved. 

Castiel considers it. 

Considers Dean, and Dean’s embarrassment. 

Castiel asks, “Could you teach me?”

His entire face turning red, Dean nevertheless nods. 

  


  


Pole-dancing, Castiel quickly comes to discover, is  _hard._

  


  


“Ask him what nursing home he works at,” Meg pesters him when he tries to tell her the reality of Dean’s basement. “Just ask him, okay, I  _know_  something is up.”

“You hate it when my feelings aren’t returned,” Castiel points out. 

“This is more than that. Ask him. Or, hell, ask him which nursing homes in the area he’d actually recommend for a relative, he would know if he wasn’t lying.”

“One awkward conversation at a cookout doesn’t mean he’s lying,” Castiel tells her, his sense of humor coming close to its limit. 

“If you ask him and he can answer, I’ll drop it,” Meg swears. 

“You promise.”

“Cross my heart.”

  


  


  


When Castiel comes over in the morning to work out, Dean’s always already tired. He’s showered from work, though fully aware he’ll need to shower again soon after. There’s a level of physical exhaustion clear in Dean’s body that keeps him teaching Castiel more by verbal instruction than by repeated examples, but nursing can be very physical work. Meg would would even be the first to agree. 

Even so, unable to fight the sensation of walking onto thin ice, Castiel swings down from the pole and asks, as casually as he can, “Which nursing home was it you work at?”

Almost imperceptibly, Dean’s eyes widen.

The rest of Dean stays very still. 

Castiel waits. 

And Dean sighs. 

Dean sags. 

“Okay, fine,” Dean says. “I wasn’t very subtle.”

For a very surreal moment, Castiel mentally apologizes to Meg.

“It’s not like I’m embarrassed,” Dean continues. “It’s just, people can be dicks about it.”

“About... you...” 

“Stripping,” Dean says. “Just stripping, I don’t do anything illegal.”

Castiel doesn’t blink; instead, it feels as if the world does that for him. 

“Oh,” Castiel says. 

Despite his claims of not being embarrassed, Dean begins to blush. He clears his throat. “Yeah, you can head out.”

“I’m glad you’re not a serial killer,” Castiel says, bluntly, hoping for a laugh. 

Mercifully, he gets one. 

“Yeah, no,” Dean says with a bit of a cough. “Way more likely to be killed by one, actually.”

“Then you’re the opposite of a serial killer.”

“Looks like.”

Again, silence. 

Castiel clears his throat. “So you work at...?”

“Snake Charmer’s,” Dean says with a little shrug. “Gay strip club. Kinda figured you’d never find out.”

“It’s not exactly the sort of place I frequent,” Castiel agrees. 

Something behind Dean’s eyes fades, or maybe falls. 

“It’s not that I disapprove,” Castiel adds. “It’s simply not something I’m interested in.” It’s Dean’s sincere smiles he needs, not an affected smirk. 

“No, I get it,” Dean says. “That’s fine. I mean, of course you know it’s fine.”

“Right,” Castiel says. 

They stand there a while longer. 

“Is it all right if I tell Meg?” Castiel asks. “She’s still concerned I’m friends with a murderer.”

Dean sighs. “Can she keep her mouth shut? Kinda worked hard to set up the whole family friendly reputation around here.”

“I’ll make her promise,” Castiel says. “She keeps her promises.”

  


  


  


“Oh my god,” Meg says. 

“You swore you wouldn’t tell.”

“Oh my  _god_ ,” Meg says but, ultimately, does not tell. 

  


  


  


The pole-dancing lessons get shorter and shorter. Mostly, they keep to the weights. Dean compensates for the revelation by upping his traditional manliness, and while Castiel thinks it’s a shame, he keeps these thoughts to himself. 

  


  


  


He keeps a lot of thoughts to himself. 

  


  


  


After nearly a full year of Castiel pining, Meg tells him she knows just the thing. She herds him into her car, blasts Christmas music over his questions, and shoos him out into a parking lot lit by a green neon sign. 

“No,” Castiel says, and yet somehow, Meg drags him inside anyway. 

The music thumps, the lights are low, and scantily clad men dance on stages and in smaller lounge areas. Despite being one of the very few women inside, one bachelorette party aside, Meg continues to drag Castiel around by the hand without hesitation until she finds someone suitably in charge. 

She hands that man her credit card, leans in close, and whispers something in his ear while jerking her thumb over her shoulder at Castiel. 

Castiel stands frozen, his feet tied to the tracks of this inevitable train. 

Meg buys him a private dance with “Hunter” and follows him to the private room. 

Dressed like a cowboy who had half his clothes stolen by glitter monsters, Dean enters from the other door. 

They stare at each other. 

“Merry Christmas,” Meg tells Castiel, pushing him down into a chair. She smacks a kiss on his cheek before saying to Dean, “He wants your dick, but he  _loves_  your freckles. Oh, and he’s gonna need a ride home. Have fun.”

With a quick wave and a gleeful look of absolute destruction, Meg leaves. 

Dean stares between Castiel and the door.

Castiel covers his face with both hands. 

“...Yeah?” Dean asks. 

Dean comes close. 

He kneels down. 

Castiel lowers his hands. 

He looks Dean in the eyes. 

He nods. 

“The two of you,” Dean says. “Not together?”

Castiel shakes his head. 

“Huh,” Dean says, and kisses him. 

  


  


  


For the rest of the night, Dean doesn’t perform any more private dances. That won’t be the case on the nights Castiel isn’t there, Dean’s quick to tell him, but tonight...

Tonight, Dean works the stage with his eyes always on Castiel. 

  


  


  


Hours later, Dean physically exhausted and Castiel mentally, Dean drives them home. Dean showers. Castiel showers, and Dean joins him. 

“You’ve already seen everything,” Dean points out, climbing inside the shower stall. There’s barely enough space for them both, tired hands brushing skin, Castiel trying to massage the last of the glitter out of Dean’s hair. They close tired eyes against the spray and lean against each other, each mouthing wet kisses against the other’s shoulder. The air steams around them. They shift, a shuffling rotation to make sure neither is trapped in the cold spot. 

“Bed?” Castiel asks. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, and keeps holding on. 

Castiel turns off the shower, towels Dean mostly dry, and wraps him up in his waiting bathrobe. Though fighting back a yawn, Dean insists on stealing Castiel’s towel, on looking at Castiel as if Dean didn’t spend his nights surrounded by fit specimens of manhood and arousal. 

They go to bed. 

  


  


  


Dean Winchester is the most wholesome neighbor Castiel has ever had the fortune to have.

Dean Winchester is the man next door that boys next door dream of growing up to marry.

Dean Winchester has sun-kissed freckles even in the middle of winter, which is when Castiel first discovers the way they adorn even his back and navel. Dean Winchester is a creature of warmth and charm and flannel sheets, and Castiel is absolutely in love with him. 

**Author's Note:**

> anonymous  asked:  
> stripper/neighbour AU?
> 
> This one, I decided to keep the prompt until the end, so people could enjoy the reveal, as it were. 
> 
> As always, to see what else I'm working on, you can follow me on [tumblr here](http://bendingsignpost.tumblr.com/) or [dreamwidth here](http://https://bendingsignpost.dreamwidth.org/).


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